The Murder of M F Burns
by HappyKittens
Summary: Mr. Burns once mentioned that the cause of deaths of both his parents were because they got in his way. Exactly how did they get in his way? What events led up to their deaths? This fic deals with his father, primarily.
1. Another Damn Letter!

There was nothing at all unusual about the scene. Charles Montgomery Burns sat at his desk in his vast office, half asleep. There was a buzz as the intercom button outside his office was pressed.

"Your mail is here, sir."

Burns sat up, and pressed one of the buttons on the underside of his desk. A trap door opened in the middle of his floor.

"Oops." He muttered, as he pressed the button beside it. "Bring it in, Smithers."

The door opened, and a young Waylon Smithers (senior) walked around the open trap door and dropped the pile of mail onto Burns' desk.

"Close that." Burns said, motioning vaguely at the floor.

"Yes, sir." Smithers said.

Burns pulled out his sword-shaped letter opener. He looked at each letter suspiciously. It was the usual: bills, environmentalist crap, more bills... and a letter. From time to time, Burns always got a hand-written letter, usually from some starry-eyed child with dreams of teaching him a lesson.

He opened this one first. Breaking the dreams of children has always made Burns happy.

_Dear Charles Montgomery Burns,_

_You may not remember me, but I have known you since you were young. We have been out of contact for years, and I have finally decided to make an attempt at writing to you in the hopes of arranging a meeting. Perhaps we could get lunch sometime to catch up._

_If this sounds good to you, please write me back as soon as you can._

_-An Old Friend_

"Smithers!"

Smithers looked up from the crank on the other side of the room. He was sweating; it was the only way to close the trap door, and it wasn't easy.

"Smithers, what's the meaning of this?" Burns asked, holding up the letter.

Glancing sadly at the half-closed trap door, Smithers let go of the crank, which immediately began spinning as the trap door opened again. He made his way over to Burns' desk.

"Meaning of what, sir?" He asked, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

"This letter." Burns waved it at him, but didn't let him take it. "The person didn't even sign his name. Check the envelope for me."

Smithers picked up the envelope, and looked at it. There was a return address, but instead of the name of a person, there was the name of a small company.

"It only says-"

"Is it a first and last name?"

"No, it says-"

Burns leaned forward and snatched the envelope from Smithers' hands and looked at it. There was nothing worth noting on it, so he tossed it in the trash can beside his desk.

"Find who sent this to me." He said, shoving the letter across his desk at Smithers, who picked it up and started toward the door.

Monty Burns sat back in his chair, and opened one of the letters he knew would insult him. They were always good for a laugh, after all.

Smithers paused. There was no address on the letter. He needed the envelope. He walked back to Burns' desk.

"Something the matter?" Burns asked coldly, as he looked at Smithers over the top of the letter.

"No, I just wanted to know if you wanted me to... close the trap door before I started on finding out who sent this."

Burns lowered the letter and looked at the trap door. Smithers used this opportunity to snatch the envelope from the trash.

"Mmm... You should. I don't want anyone to know it's there."

Smithers forced a smile, and nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll get right on it."

-

Monty Burns was looking at himself in a small, hand-held mirror. When had his hair gone grey? It must have been recently. He remembered when it was a beautiful, rich brown... flowing in the wind... With a sigh, he stuffed the mirror back into his desk.

Obviously, it was the war that had done it to him. Never mind that it had been eight years since he came home. It was just a convenient thing to blame.

In a moment, Smithers opened the door. Burns was glad that he had put his mirror away when he did.

"So, what have you found?" Burns asked, leaning forward.

Smithers stayed by the door. He looked down at a sheet of paper in his hand, in a half-hearted attempt to stall. Burns just raised his eyebrows impatiently.

"It's..." Smithers took a deep breath, "It's a man who goes by the name 'Frederick Allen Burnham'. He owns -"

"Get on with it." Burns said, waving one hand impatiently.

"Right. I went to-"

"Not important! Just tell me what you found out."

Smithers frowned. "I found his picture." Smithers cast a wary glance at a giant portrait of a man that hung to the left of Mr. Burns' desk. Burns followed his gaze to his father's portrait.

"Are you saying that the letter is from my father?" Burns asked incredulously.

Smithers nodded. "It has to be him. Even this name he's taken on – Frederick Allen Burnham. Frederick was your father's middle name, and 'Burns' and 'Burnham' are quite similar, and I mean, he obviously wouldn't use his first name..."

"Is that the picture?" Burns asked, pointing at the paper in Smithers' hand.

Smithers nodded, crossed the room, and set it on Burns' desk.

Without a doubt, it was Montgomery Frederick Burns. Older by many years, but it was unmistakable. Monty Burns would know his own father anywhere.

"You can go." Burns said, pulling a sheet of paper out of his desk.

Smithers left without another word.

The letter was going to be difficult. He needed to see his father. After all, Burns had spent quite a number of years assuming the man was dead. Well... sort of. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Monty Burns had always doubted that his father was really dead. After all, no one had ever found his body. No one had even sent out a search team. When it became apparent that the man wasn't coming back, he was simply pronounced dead.

_I'll meet you at the Café down the street from the Power Plant, on Friday, at 11:00 precisely._

He sealed up the short letter in an envelope, and put a stamp on it. He pressed the intercom button. Yet again, the trap door opened.

"Blast!" He exclaimed, and pressed the button beside the first one. "Smithers, get in here. I have some tasks that need doing. Now."

Smithers peered in before he entered the whole way. He was actually relieved to see that the trap door was down; Burns couldn't open it under him if it was all ready open.

"What is it, sir?"

"Come here." He commanded, and as Smithers made his way around the gaping hole in the floor, Burns explained. "First of all, I need you to send this letter to my father at the address he sent it from. Second, I need you to close the trap door. Third, move the blasted buttons away from each other to avoid this problem in the future. I don't want to accidentally press the intercom button when trying to be rid of a troublesome employee."

"Of course, sir. I'll get right on it." Smithers said, taking the letter from his boss.

"Make sure you don't give away the fact that I know. I'd much rather surprise him."


	2. Polite Conversation

C. Monty Burns sat at a little table in the back of the Café, waiting patiently for his father to arrive. He had a small glass of water sitting in front of him, but he was too busy with his own little fantasy to bother with it.

He was trying to imagine what would happen when his father arrived.

"_Ah, Pater! Good morning!" Burns said, standing up at the sight of of his father._

"_You know?" He asked, obviously bewildered. Distraught and uncomfortable, too._

"_Of course I know. I always know these things. I recognized your writing style right off."_

_after that, the man would break down and confess tearfully to being a terrible father; apologize for becoming a pushover and a sap, and explain that he was so ashamed of himself that he had to leave! _

The sound of a chair being pulled out forced Monty Burns to open his eyes. This man was older than the one in the photograph Smithers had shown him. Wrinkled, with only a small tuft of grey hair at the back of his head. His clothes were clean, but there was still a large stain apparent on his shirt.

He smiled.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you it was me in the letter, but I'm sure you already know. I just don't want anyone else to know." Burns' father explained as he took his seat.

Monty frowned. This wasn't going quite the way he had wanted it to. "It's fine."

"How have you been, Charles? Tell me everything." The older man continued when his son said nothing.

"Call me Monty. No one has called me by my first name since Mater died."

The old man looked conflicted. Monty Burns had no idea _why_. After all, he hated the name 'Charles' and much preferred that people use his father's name, his middle name, when referring to him.

"Charles..." Frederick Burns started, ignoring the request. "Charles, your mother isn't dead. She made it."

Monty frowned. "What do you mean? She was hit by a car. She was on life support! I _ordered_ them to pull the plug! I _wanted_ her dead!" He growled, punching the table.

"I did too. Who do you think hit her with the car? But she lived anyway. She's still alive."

Burns glowered at his father. Well, on the bright side, he had been right. His father had been the one that hit his mother with the car. For that, he was glad. No one else deserved such a pleasure. But the fact that she had lived still made him angry.

"If she's alive, why hasn't she contacted me?" Monty Burns asked.

M. F. Burns just shrugged. "What, do you think I go over for tea and gossip every week? I don't know! All I know is that she's alive. I wanted to see her dead body, and when I arrived, all the doctors were going on and on about how it was a miracle. I don't know how you didn't see it in all the papers."

C. M. Burns shrugged this time. "You can't expect me to read each newspaper cover to cover."

"It was front page news, Charles. I don't know how you could miss it."

He shrugged again. "My assistant shows me the important stories. He must not have found that important."

_Or, he was afraid you'd kill him if you found out,_ Burns' father thought, drumming his fingers on the table. "You should read the paper yourself from now on." He said out loud.

"I certainly will now. I'm glad I fired that guy."

M. F. Burns sighed. "How have you been, Charles?" He asked again, changing the topic.

Rolling his eyes, Monty Burns replied with, "Fine."

"Honestly. Tell me how you've been. I haven't seen you in a long time."

Burns crossed his arms and looked at his father. "First, explain your disappearance to me."

"I had to leave. I couldn't stand your mother anymore. You know how she is. She wouldn't have let me go. If I had even brought it up she would have made things worse. So I left. I didn't think they'd pronounce me dead."

"That's all?" Burns asked.

"Of course it is. What other reasons would there be?"

For a moment, Monty Burns wasn't sure if he should tell his father what he was thinking. But then... he had never held back before. Why start now?

"You were pathetic, Pater. A terrible role model. You stopped being the man I looked up to after Mater cheated on you with Taft. I thought you were ashamed of yourself, like you damn well should have been. I thought that's why you left town."

The old man shook his head. "I'm not ashamed. I learned something from all that: there are more important things than power and money, and I was hoping that you had learned that too."

Disgusted, Burns pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. "There is _nothing_ more important than power and money, you old fool. Did you think I was going to make the same mistakes you did? Marry some crazy woman and raise a family? Waste my time sitting in a church, pretending to be an upstanding citizen? Sit around telling my woes to my so-called 'friends'? None of these did _you_ any good. Why should I do something I know is useless?"

"Happiness, Charles."

"I _am_ happy." Monty Burns snarled. He pulled his jacket from the back of his chair and stormed out of the Café.

Montgomery Frederick Burns sighed. He had known it would happen, somewhere in the back of his mind, but he had hoped... he had hoped that his son wouldn't take the same path. However... there was still time to make him see.


	3. Unwanted Help

Burns sat in his office, still fuming from the meeting with his father. Who did he think he was, anyway? That man wasn't the same man who had raised him. He couldn't be. It was impossible! He had hoped that his father would have come to his senses after all that time, but... well, obviously, he hadn't.

Words alone simply could not express how disgusting it was! His own father, a once powerful and very threatening man with brilliant ideas on how to put others in their place...

Standing up, Burns took a quick walk around his office to cool himself down. It didn't work anywhere near as much as he had hoped, but it was good enough. Burns opened the door to his office and peered out at Smithers.

"Something wrong?" Smithers asked.

Pausing, Monty Burns looked back in his office, at the large and glowering painting of his father. "No. I want you to get rid of the paintings in my office. I've decided to redecorate, and the paintings are not in my future plans."

Smithers paused. "What do you want me to do with them?"

Burns looked back in his office. There were three other paintings in the room. A large painting of himself, matching the one of his father, and two others: a pack of lions bringing down a zebra, and a large crocodile waiting patiently in a river. He wanted to keep those two, and perhaps the one of himself as well. It was just the painting of his father he wanted destroyed.

"Put them aside so they can be brought up to my mansion." Burns replied. He went back into his office, carefully walking around the place where the trap door was, and sitting back at his desk.

For once, Burns did some work. Usually he let his assistants do his paperwork, but he wasn't in the mood to nap.

-

There was a knock on his door. Burns was surprised; ever since he hired Smithers, he was warned of who was at the door over the intercom.

Burns hit the intercom button – the real intercom button, since the button for the trap door had been moved, as he had ordered, to the other side of his desk.

"Come in."

The door swung open. Slowly. Burns leaned forward with anticipation, although he had a feeling that he all ready knew who it was.

His father walked in, looking more disheveled than he had at lunch. Burns leaned back at frowned at him.

"What do you want?" he asked coldly.

"I want to talk to you." Burns' father replied, walking straight to Burns' desk. He stood in front of it, a patient look on his face. It annoyed his son beyond words.

"Say what you must, and leave. I'm a busy man." Burns said, resting his head on the back of his chair.

"That's not how two people talk, Charles."

"Stop calling me Charles." Burns snarled, leaning forward. "I go by Montgomery now. The name Montgomery Burns put fear in hearts before I used it, and it will put fear in hearts now, whether you agree with it or not."

C. M. Burns was surprised to see that his father looked sad. It made him angrier.

"I wish you wouldn't use my name like that, Charles."

Burns gritted his teeth, and prepared a retort. His father spoke first.

"I know. My name came with an essence of fear attached, and it was as simple as using your middle name to get that. I wouldn't have passed up that opportunity either."

Silence. Burns looked suspiciously at his father, who just stood there and stared at the carpet sadly. Minutes passed slowly. Painfully.

"This office is a lot like my old one." His father said, looking up from the carpet. "And I see you've had a painting of me made up. What's that under it?" He asked, pointing at a thin pedestal with a little golden jar on top.

"Your ashes." Burns replied. Finally, something went just as he had expected: His father shivered. Visibly. It made Burns smile.

"Whose ashes are they really?"

"They belong to no one. I burned some old photographs of you and Mater, split them up into each urn" He paused to point out the other golden urn under the painting of himself, " and I say that they are yours and Mater's ashes. Yours under your portrait, and Mater's under mine. Of course, I don't tell anyone that they aren't really human remains.

"If you were both actually dead, and I came into possession of your bodies, I certainly wouldn't keep them in my office. Goodness, no!"

He paused, and waited for the question.

"What would you do with us, Charles?"

"Well," Mr. Burns said slowly, a grin spreading like infection across his face, "my attack dogs need to be trained to love the taste of human flesh, and it _is_ quite difficult to find human parts to feed to them. I suppose your rotting bodies would suffice, although I would prefer it if you were both alive when you were fed to them."

Burns' father shook his head, and his son laughed.

"You certainly are my son."

"And proud." Burns replied. "Or, at least, I was until you were _ruined_! Ruined by Mater's selfish actions, that witch. My dream was to work beside you, the most terrible and powerful father/son team in Springfield! It's _your_ fault that things didn't end up that way! You disgust me." With that, Burns leaned back in his chair, using the light cast by the window behind him to obscure himself in shadows.

His father pulled the shades closed.

"I'm trying to help you." He said as darkness fell over the office.

"You're trying to ruin me." Burns replied as he hit another button on the underside of his desk, and the overhead lights came on.

"Please, listen to what I have to say."

"You will not," Burns stood up and face his father, "fill my head with your hippie claptrap about love and peace!"

"Hippies haven't existed in a decade, Charles."

"I don't care what they're calling hippies now-a-days; it's all the same thing anyway."

Exasperated, Monty Burns' father put a hand over his face and sighed. "Can't we just talk? A friendly conversation between father and son. It doesn't have to be about this."

"What would it be about, then? Me? My life? How I've been wasting it? I think not."

"What about your assistant? We can talk about him."

Both men looked at the door, as if Smithers could hear them.

"Alright, fine. His name is Waylon Smithers. Honestly, he's he only decent assistant I've had since your old assistant, Davies."

"What happened to Davies?"

"I don't know." Mr. Burns said with a shrug. "I fired him."

The older man sighed, and chose to ignore it. "Right. So... what are you planning on buying Mr. Smithers for a wedding gift?"

"A wedding what?"

"Gift. You know... it's traditional to give gifts when someone gets married."

Burns looked confused. "He's not getting married. I don't even think he's seeing anyone."

M. Frederick Burns just stared at his son for a while. Could anyone be that dense? "He's got pictures of her all over his desk. I asked him about them, and he told me that they were engaged. I assumed you already knew."

Monty shrugged. "I can't be expected to keep tabs on all of my employees love lives."

"I think you should do something nice for him, for his wedding. Give him a couple thousand dollars so he can put a down payment on a house. Tell him that it's his bonus for this year, given early. You can even skip giving him a Christmas bonus. Just this one. After all, you said he was a good assistant, right? And you want to keep him around."

Burns snorted. "I'll get right on that." he said sarcastically.

The two just stared at each other for a moment. Monty Burns sneering at his father, and Frederick Burns looking frustrated.

"I should be going." Fredrick said eventually. "I have my business to look after."

"And my, your newfound brand of kindness seems to be making you a lot of money. How _can_ you afford those disgusting, stained clothes?" Burns muttered, just loud enough so that his father could hear him. His father turned to look back, just as Burns smoothed down his expensive silk tie.

"I'll come see you later." Burns' father said, ignoring the comment.

"Of course."

A few seconds later, the door slammed and Charles Montgomery Burns was alone.


	4. Pity for the Other Party

Montgomery Frederick Burns kept his promise. The next day, he arrived at the Power Plant and entered his son's office without warning. The boy wasn't there! How strange.

He took a seat at the desk to wait.

As he studied the unlabeled buttons on the underside of the desk, the door opened. Involuntarily, he stood up.

"It's okay, it's just me." Waylon Smithers said, holding out one hand and motioning that it was okay for Frederick to sit back down.

"Where's Charles?"

"He's not here today. He usually doesn't come in on Fridays unless there's something important that he needs to get done." Smithers explained.

"Then I suppose waiting here doesn't do me much good, does it?" Frederick asked, laughing as he walked around his son's desk.

"Not really, sir." Smithers replied.

"Please, call me Fred. I hate being called 'sir'."

Smithers looked surprised. "Are you sure you're Mr. Burns' father?"

Burns smiled, and muttered something that Smithers couldn't quite hear.

"What?"

"I adopted him." The old man said so he could be heard. "When he was about three years old or so. I don't recall exactly, and I'm not even sure if he remembers it. I actually married his mother a year or so later." Burns laughed a little, in a pained sort of way, "It was a terrible mistake. I ruined the child and... I wish I had never married his mother. She was a wretched woman."

Smithers, being extremely uncomfortable about everything his boss's father was saying, pulled a rag out of his back pocket and started shining one of the urns that still sat in the room. Burns watched for a minute.

"I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable. I was just trying to explain."

"No, no. I'm fine." Smithers said, still polishing the golden urn.

There was a long pause.

"I told Charles to give you a couple thousand dollars so you could put a down payment on a house. As a wedding present."

"That's not necessary. Diane and I can live in her mother's basement until we can afford a place of our own."

"You know that that's no way to start a marriage. At _least_ get an apartment."

Smithers tucked the rag back into his pocket, and turned to face Fred. "I suppose we should."

"Don't worry; I'm sure my son will give you the money for a house." Frederick Burns said, "He likes you. He says you're the best assistant he's had."

Confused and surprised, Smithers just shrugged slightly. "I haven't really done anything worth the amount of money it costs to get a house."

Burns sighed. It seemed like everyone in this town was still stupid. He had spent years convincing himself that they hadn't _actually_ been so dense, but a trip back just proved it. He felt sorry for Smithers, though. He was letting himself get pushed around. No wonder his son loved having this guy around.

"I still think he should. It would be a nice gesture."

Smithers shook his head. "You know how he is with nice gestures."

"I know, but there is always a chance that he'll see it my way."

Smithers smiled at Burns. He was deluding himself if he thought his son would be that kind. Smithers knew it. He knew his boss was a terrible person, but he loved the plant, and he didn't mind serving Monty Burns. It was much better than working maintenance on sewers, or picking up garbage. He knew that first hand.

At least working for C. M. Burns didn't make him reek like feces and decomposing matter. Usually.

"Did you know," Burns said after a long pause, "that Charles didn't know that you were getting married?"

"I'm not surprised. I didn't tell him. I mean, he never asked, so..." Smithers trailed off.

"Oh."

Another silence.

"I have work I need to do. Mr. Burns will be in on Monday. You can come back then." Smithers said.

"Oh, all right. I'll see you on Monday." Burns said. He paused at the door, and looked back at Smithers, who was polishing the large desk.

"That poor man." Burns muttered.

When he was gone, Smithers looked up. "It would be terrible to be that deluded." Smithers said to himself. With a sigh, he tucked the rag into his pocket and left to check on the employees.


	5. A Game of Tennis

After leaving the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant, Montgomery Frederick Burns went to his son's mansion. There was no fence, not one way of keeping unwanted people away.

He knocked on the door, and Monty Burns opened the door. His father noticed that he wasn't wearing a suit, but a white polo shirt and shorts. Somehow, it made him look _more_ pretentious.

"You know where I live?" he asked, sounding mildly disgusted, instead of a standard greeting.

His father shrugged. "It's not exactly a secret. Everyone in town knows where you live."

Burns frowned, but motioned him in. "Sure, fine." He said, shutting the door when his father was inside.

His father looked around the main hall with awe. "Quite a place you have here."

"I'm still working on it. I'm putting up _fence_ next, to keep unwanted visitors out."

Yet again, the older man ignored the comment. "Are those stairs made of marble?"

Burns followed his gaze. "Yes, they are."

"Must have cost a fortune."

"Not when you know how to properly utilize your money." Burns replied. "They key is to know who to bribe, and when."

Frowning, his father just sighed a little and shook his head. He was trying so hard not to anger his son. It wasn't going to be easy.

"Uh... would you... like something to drink?" Burns asked, making a sad attempted to play the part of the good host. He hated it, but the man _was_ his father, after all.

"That's okay."

Burns sighed heavily, and took a seat on the marble staircase. "Fine, fine. We'll sit here and make uncomfortable conversation for a while." Burns paused to look at his watch. "I need to be down at the tennis court in ten minutes anyway."

"Oh. Maybe I should..."

"Balderdash! You can stay, so long as you don't start getting preachy again. You can watch me play tennis, I suppose. Kenny Brockman is coming down from his summer home for this match."

"Should we...?" The older man motioned at the door.

"I suppose." Burns said, standing up. The pair left through the front door, and Burns led his father around his mansion and down a hill. Two fenced-in tennis courts sat in his back yard.

"Do you really need _two_ courts?" Fred asked.

Burns just shrugged.

"It doesn't seem kind of wasteful to you?"

"Not really." Burns replied, "Sometimes my guests have children or girlfriends or something to entertain. The second court keeps them from ruining my fun."

They were silent for a while, as they made their way down the hill.

"Do you ever... have unselfish reasons... for doing anything?" Fred asked finally.

Burns shrugged one shoulder. "Not really. Why?" He looked at his father, expecting an argument about the importance of other people, or something along those lines.

His father didn't say anything, but he didn't look at Burns either. He just stared down at the grass at kept walking.

Burns ignored it and hurried to get to his supplies shed. He pulled open the door and grabbed his racket and and new container of tennis balls.

"If you'd like, you can help me warm up." Burns offered, although he doubted his father would take him up on the offer.

"Okay. Do you have a racket for me?"

Burns frowned. Since when had he been so _bad_ at guessing what people would do? He grabbed another racket and closed the door with his foot.

"Here." He said, offering his father a warn-out racket. He took it, and followed his son over to the door on the fence.

"This one is sort of beat up." Frederick said, studying the old racket by spinning it in his right hand.

"Most of my guests have their own rackets." Burns replied as he fought with the lock for a moment. "The others get used by more _careless_ folk. You know, those children I was speaking of." Burns shuddered before pushing the door open.

"You don't like children?"

"Not particularly." Burns replied, entering the courts and holding the door open for his father. Fred walked in, and Burns shut the door behind him.

"I never liked them much when I was your age either." He replied.

"I know." Burns said, walking around the net to the other side of the court. "When you were my age, I was still a child. A child under your care, in case you don't recall." He turned to open the container of tennis balls.

Frederick frowned. "I liked _you_." He said.

"_Obviously_, Pater." Burns said, pausing from his struggle to roll his eyes. "You wouldn't have bothered adopting me if you didn't find _something_ undisgusting about me." The container popped open and the three tennis balls flew out. "Blast!" He said, abandoning the container and going to collect the tennis balls.

Although he tried not to, Fred smiled. "You were ambitious, and willing to learn. I liked that."

"If you hadn't turned into a dotard you might actually be proud of me." Burns replied as he picked up the last tennis ball.

His father ignored the insult, and waited as Burns put two of the balls back and set the container aside before getting into position.

"Are you ready?" Burns asked impatiently.

"Yeah."

Burns hit the tennis ball hard. It bounced right in front of Fred, and almost hit him. He swung his racket and the ball bounced back at Burns. With a smooth backhand movement, the ball was back on the other side of the court.

After a while, when Fred had gotten the hang of the game a little, he spoke up.

"You're pretty good." He panted.

Burns just snorted, and hit the ball back at his father. He took the opportunity to glance toward the door, to see if Brockman had gotten there yet. He wasn't by the door, but out of the corner of his eye, Burns saw him coming down from the hill.

He made to catch the ball as it came back, but it hit him in the face instead. One hand over his cheek, he crouched down to snatch the tennis ball from the court. "Thanks." He muttered bitterly.

"Sorry." Fred said crossing the court, "Are you okay?"

"Fine." Burns replied, taking the hand off his cheek. He could hear Kenny laughing at him, and a couple other voices. His family, most likely. "You can play a game with Kent, if you'd like. He's the monster that destroyed that racket."

"I do hope you'll play better than that today." Kenny said, opening the door to the courts. His son pushed past him, his own beaten-up racket in one hand and a worn tennis ball in the other.

"Come on mom! Let's play!" He called, skipping through the first court over to the second one. Kenny's wife followed him.

"Don't worry. I will." Burns replied to Kenny, although he was watching Kent out of the corner of his eye. "You can sit on the side." He said to his father, in tone he usually used on his servants. He wasn't about to let the Brockmans know that his father was alive, and judging by the look on his father's face, he didn't want anyone to know either.

He walked around the net and up to his son. "Can't I just leave? Maybe I'll come up tomorrow and we can talk then."

Burns frowned slightly. He was trying to remember if he had anything planned that day, as well as trying to figure out how to have his father leave without making him seem anything more than a servant.

"Okay, tomorrow." He said quietly. A little louder, he said, "Fine, work in the kitchens."

He shooed his father off the court, and turned his attention to Kenny.

"Are you ready to lose?" Kenny asked with a laugh. Burns gritted his teeth.

-

From the hill, Fred watched his son play against Kenny Brockman. The look on his son's face depressed him further. He had this look of determination mixed with hatred, and he was only playing a recreational game against a friend.

He had to convince the boy to see life differently, without being too preachy. It would take some planning and a lot of time and work, but he figured he could do it. Just wait carefully, establish a friendship with him, and then it would all become easier.


	6. Pushed Too Far

Bright and early, Montgomery Frederick Burns arrived at his son's mansion. He knocked on the door and waited.

A few minutes passed, and a servant opened the door.

"Monty will be down in a moment." He said.

"It's _Mr. Burns_!" An angry voice yelled from somewhere upstairs.

The servant rolled his eyes. "_Mr. Burns_ will be with you in a moment." He corrected himself.

With his tie and jacket draped over his elbow, and his shirt only half-buttoned, Monty Burns appeared at the top of the stairs. "One more slip up, Reginald, and you're fired. One. You're lucky. You _get_ a strike. Think carefully. Was Mona that lucky?" Burns raised an eyebrow and glared down at his servant.

Reginald shook his head, and looked at the floor. "No, she wasn't."

"Be glad you still have a job and all your fingers, then. Of course, I can't let this slide unnoticed. You'll get a 40 pay cut until you can prove you deserve full pay. Now off with you." Burns motioned vaguely with one hand, and Reginald muttered 'Yes, sir' and scurried off.

Burns stood at the top of the stairs and finished dressing himself.

Fred just stood there uncomfortably for a while. He wanted to say something about the treatment of his servants, but was afraid to. Finally, as Burns was adjusting his tie, he had to ask one thing.

"What happened to Mona's fingers?"

Burns looked down at his father. "Kitchen mishap." He replied, smoothing down his tie with the back of his hand.

"What kind of mishap?"

Burns shrugged. "She was cutting something and chopped off one of her fingers. The product was worth more than her grubby finger, I can tell you that much. That's why I fired her."

"What could be more important than-"

"It really isn't any of your business." Burns growled.

Fred decided not to press the matter. He abruptly changed the subject. "So... should we sit and talk?" He asked.

Burns sighed. "I suppose so." He said, glancing behind him. Although he didn't want to admit it to his father, he wasn't completely sure where the sitting room was. He only used the dining room, the bathroom, his bedroom, and occasionally the library and a small study.

Ahh! The library. It had a nice view. Perfect excuse to bring his father there instead of the sitting room.

"This way." Burns said, motioning for his father to follow him. He led him through a few halls, and walked under a large arched doorway into a large room. On the right and left were tall bookcases that covered the whole wall. Neither of them was filled with books; there were gaps here and there where books were missing and the shelves on the bottom were empty.

Across from the door was a large window. Burns loved oversized windows, but only if they had decent views. This view was one of Springfield – nearly the whole city fit perfectly in the window.

Burns took a seat on one of the three couches in the library. They were all the exact same shade of brown, (and in fact, the desk, coffee table, side tables, and desk chair were all this color as well) but were made of different materials. Burns had chosen the leather couch, and his father moved a few books so that he could take a seat on the suede couch.

"Just set them over there." Burns said, pointing at the other couch. It was made of a rougher cloth, and draped with a blanket.

"There certainly are a lot of books lying around." Fred said as he set the books down on the couch. Burns shrugged. He had forgotten what a terrible state his library was in; he didn't like it when his servants cleaned the place. They always put his books away in the wrong places. Of course, it was a little better than Burns himself, who just never put away his books.

Fred looked around, assuming that Monty would, eventually, say something on the subject. They just sat there in uncomfortable silence until he did.

"I don't clean the library often." Burns finally said, feeling defeated.

"You clean it yourself?" His father asked curiously.

"You know how hired help can be." Burns replied, "Books never end up in their rightful places. They fall into disrepair much faster when I have someone come in and touch them with their grubby hands."

"I don't think leaving them out is much better."

"Although they may be stacked high, I do not believe that this means that they are any worse off than they would be if they were on the shelves."

Burns' father picked up another book from beside him and looked at it carefully before setting it on a side table on top of a couple other books. "I suppose."

"Really, you don't seem to understand some of the things that my servants have done. One girl ruined a rare copy of 'The Complete Works of Nathanael Hawthorne'. I may not have been fond of the man, but the book was in pristine condition when I came into possession of it."

"Do you still have it?"

Burns stood and went to the shelves. He pulled out a thick, tome and dropped it on his father's lap.

As Burns stared down at him, he looked at it. It was leather-bound, and appeared to be in perfect condition, except, perhaps, for the yellowed pages.

"What's wrong with it?" He finally dared asking.

"What's-?" Burns sputtered, "What's wrong with it? Look here!" He pointed at a tiny mark on the cover that Frederick had overlooked. "A gash right in the center of the cover! Impossible to fix, by the way."

After holding the book up to the light, Fred still wasn't sure if he honestly saw the 'gash' his son referred to.

"What did you do to the girl?"

Burns snatched his book back from his father. "I fired her, of course. I don't tolerate incompetence." He said as he marched back to the shelf and put the book in its place.

"You just fired her?"

For a second, Burns paused. It had been a few years back, so he didn't remember the incident properly. He turned back to his father. "I believe I threw the book at her, but in my defense, I was younger and more spontaneous back then."

Fred watched his son sit back down. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"I would have released the hounds on her if I had owned them at this time. Well, perhaps just one hound if I was feeling particularly generous." He explained as he crossed his legs.

The pair just stared at each other. Burns had a cocky smile; he knew that his father wanted to get to know him, and had been overlooking such things since they first met. Monty Burns loved seeing the look in his father's eyes as he held his frustration and disgust in.

In a moment, Frederick was standing. Burns thought he was going to storm out, but he did something worse.

M. F. Burns slapped his son across the face. Monty Burns just sat there, looking stunned, one hand on the cheek that had been slapped as his father went off.

"That girl made an honest mistake, just dropped a book and scratched it a little, and you not only fired her for it, but you _threw_ the book at her! You would honestly release your dogs on a poor girl just for doing a tiny bit of damage to a book! When I was your age, I was a terrible human being, but I was never _this_ bad. _THIS_? This is disgusting, Charles. How do you _live_ with yourself?"

Monty Burns hadn't heard a word the man was saying. His stunned silence quickly changed into a livid silence, as he glared up at his father.

The man had to die.

Standing, Burns shoved his father aside roughly and left the library. There was planning to do.

Frederick, losing his balance at the sudden push, fell to the floor and stared at his son as he left. Although he considered following the boy, he decided not to push his luck.

"Is everything okay?"

The man called Reginald, the man who had answered the door, appeared in the doorway of the library. Fred struggled for a moment before he grabbed onto the side of a table and stood up.

"I'm fine." He answered. "Tell Charles that I've left."

"Of course, sir." Reginald replied.

-

Author's note: I'd like to thank Batsbutler for the suggestion of having Mr. Burns' father slap him. I believe I have put it to good use. (It took a long time to find the right place to put it, though. I think I picked the right place.)


	7. Apparent Apologies

For the next few days, neither Charles Montgomery Burns nor Montgomery Frederick Burns bothered contacting the other. They were both too annoyed at each other, and besides, they both had planning to do. Monty Burns was planning how to properly kill his father, and Freddy Burns was trying to figure out how to explain his outburst and get his son's forgiveness.

When Burns' father finally decided to call his son, Burns just hung up on him. He was ready to put his plan in motion, but he didn't want his father to suspect anything.

In fact, for the next week, Fred tried to call his son and Burns just hung up each time without even bothering to listen to what he had to say. As expected, Burns' father finally showed up at the power plant after all of the repeated failures at phone communication.

Smithers knew what had happened between the two. Burns had told him. Burns had also explained exactly what he should do when the man showed up.

"Oh, hello Fred." Smithers said, looking up at his boss's father with a pained and forced smile.

"Hello. Can I...?" He motioned at the office door.

"Uh, just a second." Smithers pushed the intercom button. "Mr. Burns? You have a... uh... a guest."

A speaker above the door buzzed a moment as Burns pressed his own intercom button. "Who is it?" He asked. His father heard hatred in his voice. He wasn't so sure that he wanted to see his son face-to-face anymore.

"It's... uh, it's your father."

"Send him away!" Burns said.

For a moment, Fred wasn't sure if he should leave, or if he should go in anyway. If he had been thinking straight, he would have looked at Waylon Smithers and realized that if he went in anyway, Smithers could easily become unemployed, and it was difficult to pay for a wedding when you were unemployed.

He wasn't thinking straight, though. He was too afraid and ashamed of himself. He was too busy worrying about turning his son into a better man. He didn't even hear Smithers' perfunctory warning as he opened the door to his son's office.

"I do believe I instructed Smithers to send you away." Burns said calmly as his father appeared in the doorway.

"You did. But I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to apologize."

Burns looked thoughtful for a moment. "Okay. I'll give you a chance. Beg." He said, pointing to the floor.

"I'm not going to-"

Raising from his chair, Burns pointed at the floor again, more forcefully. "I said _beg_, old man!" He growled.

"Charles, I'm sorry for hitting you, but I'm not going to get on my knees and beg for your forgiveness."

Burns sat back down and tented his fingers. "Fine." He said. "I suppose your apology is enough for me." He said, smiling.

Burns' father looked confused, and didn't reply. After all the ignored calls, after commanding him to get on his knees and beg, he was going to let it go with an apology?

"I've been thinking, Pater, and I've come to realize that you are right. Not completely, but to a point. I've always wondered what caused me to go through my servants so quickly, you see, and your little wake-up call really hit home. Perhaps I have treated some of my servants unfairly."

Again, the old man was too stunned to say anything, so Burns went on talking.

"I was angry at first. Honestly, I still am. But I think a lot of that anger stems from the feeling that you were right this whole time."

This time, Burns waited for his father to say something. He tried very hard not to look at his clock as he watched his father standing there, looking confused. He was sure than an hour had passed when Fred finally spoke up.

"I'm... glad." He said.

"Mmmhmm. I knew you would be. From now on, I'll be treating my employees and servants with the utmost kindness."

"I... good for you, Charles. Good for you."

"Mm."

More silence. Burns was starting to resent the weird silences, but he rode this one out like he did all the others, like he knew he had to.

"So... are you angry at me?"

Ahh, perfect. "Well, I am still a little upset, but I could never truly hate you, Pater." Burns said.

Fred smiled. "I couldn't ever hate you either."

"Listen, we should go on a picnic. I don't have plans Saturday, so perhaps we could go then."

"I- uh, that sounds good."

"I was thinking Springfield Gorge." Burns said, unable to repress a sly grin.


	8. Dramatic Death

It was all set up. Although he had originally decided to keep it simple, he couldn't help but go out of his way to draw things out.

There was a tacky checkered blanket spread on the ground, and a basket atop it. It was on a grassy spot, about a half a dozen yards from the edge of the gorge.

Burns stood a few feet back from the edge, absentmindedly stroking a handgun hidden in a holster under his t-shirt as he admired the sunset and the rocky view. The drop down wasn't too far. It was entirely possible for a man to survive the drop. The hungry wolves that he had put at the bottom... well, that was another story all together.

When he heard a rustling, he pulled his hand out from under his shirt. He knew that it must have looked weird. Turning, he saw his father standing near some bushes.

"Pater? What are you doing?"

"I was trying to get a closer look at these berries. I'm not sure if they're blueberries, or the ones that look like blueberries."

Burns rolled his eyes. "I brought food." He said.

"Fine, fine." Fred said, stepping away from the bushes. Both men walked over to the blanket, but Burns didn't sit.

"Really, before we eat, I feel that we should admire the view." He said, reaching down and grabbing his father's arm.

"I wish you had said something before I sat down. I'm not as young as I used to be."

Burns didn't reply, he just helped his father up and led him over to the edge of the gorge, where he had been standing before.

"It's lovely, isn't it?" He asked as they came to a stop. Burns was careful to motion out instead of down. "I'm glad we came at sunset."

"Me too." Fred agreed, looking out at the colors of the sky. Burns stepped back a little, and pulled out his gun.

"The best part," Burns began, "is that it's dark, and there are no witnesses."

Frederick turned around, and his eyes immediately went to the gun. He looked into his son's face. There was hatred there, burning in his eyes, living in his cruel grin. In the back of his mind, Frederick Burns berated himself. He should have known all along.

"Charles..."

"Pater." Burns said almost kindly through his twisted grin, "You know that pleading isn't going to help you. You pushed the limits. I wasn't going to kill you, but you had to get in my way. You had to resort of physical violence in your attempt to reform me. You should have known better."

"You wouldn't resort to murder. They'll put you in jail. Someone will know."

"Oh really?" Burns laughed, "Why would I kill someone who is all ready dead?"

There was a pause as Burns' father thought about that. "I have another identity, you know. Frederick Allen Burnham."

"Inconsequential." Burns said with a shrug. "I've never met the man. Besides, even if they do find me suspect, I have a story. I'll tell them that you were a business associate. We went to the gorge, but you had an accident. Very tragic."

The older man pointed at the gun. "They'll know you shot me."

Again, Burns laughed. "I don't plan on shooting you! Heavens, do you think I'm stupid? This gun serves as a backup plan, in case you try to run, and in case those wolves down there somehow come up here."

Wolves? Fred looked down. Although it was getting dark, he could see some wolves dotted along the bottom of the gorge. They seemed lethargic, and didn't seem to know what whas happening above them.

"They don't seem that bad."

Burns smiled. "I can see why you'd say that." He said. He scooted to his left slightly and kicked a bucket that had been hidden by the edge of the cliff. It tumbled over the edge, along with an assortment of animal bits that Burns hadn't been bothered to learn more about.

Attracted to the smell, the wolves all gathered right below them. Most of them fought over what had made it down. The others looked up.

"I planned ahead." Burns said. "If you're lucky, they'll break your fall."

Fred looked back down at the wolves for a moment. Then he looked up at Monty Burns.

"Son, please..." He pleaded.

"Spare me. Do you think I care? It's like you yourself never attempted murder. Come to think of it, I could always fit that into my excuse if they find out I killed you. After all, you did nearly kill my loving Mater." Burns let his guard down for a moment, to pretend to look sad.

Fred used this opportunity to lunge at his son and take the gun.

Burns had been expecting it. It was why he had faked the sadness in the first place. He elbowed his father in the ribcage, and kicked his feet out from under him. The old man fell backwards, right into the gorge.

As planned.

Looking over the cliff to make sure his father hadn't snagged on something, Burns thought gleefully to himself that, _finally_, something had gone his way.

As the screaming began, Charles Montgomery Burns turned and left.


	9. Epilogue

Monty Burns sat in the back row, feeling foolish in the ruffled dress shirt he had promised to wear. Really, though, it was all the crying made him the most uncomfortable.

He had to admit, though. The bride looked beautiful in her pure white gown, and Waylon Smithers looked rather dashing as well, in his rented tux. His faithful assistant looked so happy, to be standing up there, repeating those vows that Burns had decided years ago were both frivolous and downright doltish.

After the ceremony, Burns had followed the other guests to the reception just outside the church. He tried taking another seat in the back, but Smithers pulled him forward.

"This is my boss." Smithers said, motioning to him. His new wife stood there, beaming at him.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Burns." She said, shaking his hand and smiling a genuine smile.

"Likewise." He replied.

"I can't believe you bought us a house as a wedding present. It was so kind of you." She said, still smiling that genuine smile at him. Burns couldn't remember anyone ever looking at him with such admiration. He hated to think that this kind deed made him feel _good_, but it did.

"After all the overtime that Waylon has put in for me, I figured that he deserved something special. You only get married once, after all." He explained. He added an extra look to Smithers, who nodded. The house had come with a few strings attached, of course. Smithers knew of them, although his wife did not. A few extra duties, and of course, Smithers had to act like he had never met Mr. Burns' father.

Despite those strings, Smithers couldn't help but think, in the back of his mind, that Burns' father had had an effect on him.

Not that Monty Burns would ever admit it.


End file.
